


The Seeing Red Affair

by princessgolux



Series: Maintain The Right [1]
Category: Stargate SG-1, The Man From U.N.C.L.E., due South
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Established Relationship, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo - Freeform, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Original Character(s), Tok'ra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1367425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessgolux/pseuds/princessgolux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And the search continues for the whereabouts of Sergeant Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and his personal and professional partner Stanley Raymond Kowalski, formerly of the Chicago Police Department. The two officers disappeared over the Alaskan wilderness early this morning after heroically foiling a hijacking attempt. It appears that, at some point during the struggle with one of the suspected hijackers, all three men fell or jumped out of the airplane. There were no eyewitnesses to their actual fight, but sources say that multiple shots were fired. It is unknown at this time whether any of the three men were wearing parachutes." </p>
<p>"A joint task force consisting of Canadian and US forces are searching for possible survivors..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act 1:  "I found you bleeding all over my nice tundra."

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Oblique references to a number of dS eps, particularly MOB & COTW. This is AU for MfU after 4th season. Set in an AU pre-S8 Stargate SG-1 universe. (NOT Stargate Universe the TV show!) Formatted (obviously) like an MfU episode, because it pleases me. ;-)  
> Warning: angst, and MfU character death implied/discussed.  
> Disclaimer: Alas, all these characters belong to other people; also, I am making no money from this.  
> Notes: This is the first in a dS/SG-1 series. It’s the jumping off point. Jack and crew are not, however, in the following story. The SG-1 crew will show up in the next one, I promise! I absolutely have to thank Iris & David for the betas! For the pictures that Fraser finds, check out http://lyrebird.aithine.org/agent_b.jpg. Linked with permission from artist. (Thanks, lyrebird!)  
> New Note for AO3 – This was written in 2004 (Effing 10 years ago!) I checked the link and it still seems to be working, however, so yay! I’ve done some minor editing, so if you read this story long ago on FF.net or on my now defunct website, there are some extremely minor changes, but it’s mostly intact.

**Act 1:**

**_"I found you bleeding all over my nice tundra."_ **

 

 

_Somewhere under a mountain in Alaska…_

 

"And the search continues for the whereabouts of Sergeant Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and his personal and professional partner Stanley Raymond Kowalski, formerly of the Chicago Police Department. The two officers disappeared over the Alaskan wilderness early this morning after heroically foiling a hijacking attempt. It appears that, at some point during the struggle with one of the suspected hijackers, all three men fell or jumped out of the airplane. There were no eyewitnesses to their actual fight, but sources say that multiple shots were fired. It is unknown at this time whether any of the three men were wearing parachutes."

"A joint task force consisting of Canadian and US forces are searching for possible survivors..."

The sound clicked off.

Illya Kuryakin pocketed the small remote and wiped his face, not caring that his motion streaked blood from his hands over everything he touched.

The dark one wore the red uniform of the RCMP; therefore the dying one must be the Chicago cop.

_He doesn’t have to die, Illya_

"It is not our concern, Trev’van." Illya muttered; his speech was slurred with fatigue. He could hear Mother Russia clearly in his thick voice and cursed to himself. He should not be operating on cops or Mounties or anyone else in this state. But there was no one else to do so, not anymore.

He picked up the red healing device again. The lean cop had frostbitten fingers, dirty blond hair, and necrosis invading two gunshot wounds to his abdomen and another to his arm. Illya had been working on him for almost an hour now, and the other man needed his care. The healing device wouldn’t be able to save the critically wounded man; all it could do was stop the damage from spreading any faster, shore up critical systems for a while. The dark one had no gunshots that Illya could see; his was strictly a case of exposure.

Time to switch patients. Illya could lose one of these men, or he could lose both of them.

Time to choose.

Illya made sure the dying man was as stable as he could be for the time being and prepared to save the Mountie, ignoring the voices in his head.

_Illya. Illya, listen to me. Illya. He doesn’t have to die._

 

* * * *

 

Benton Fraser came awake slowly, his mind automatically calculating the damage to his body. Fortunately, he’d had an inordinate amount of practice in that particular exercise. His mental checklist revealed no immediately dangerous wounds, just the familiar feeling of overexposure to inclement weather. Practically standard operating procedure for being lost in a snowstorm. Fraser dismissed it. His first coherent thought was for his partner. Ray had been shot, at least twice. The ride down in the blizzard had been a nightmare; he remembered holding tight to Ray, praying that both the snowing and the bleeding would stop and that the single parachute would slow their descent sufficiently so as to enable him to find aid when they touched down.

His awakening senses initially seemed to assure him of some type of familiarity. But as he opened his eyes, his first overwhelming relief was quickly followed by disorientation. At first glance, the room seemed like a hospital room. Machines and white walls, crisp linen and sterile air. But the machines were wholly unfamiliar to Fraser, unlike anything he’d ever seen. There was no sharp scent of antiseptic in the air. And the room seemed a lot bigger, more like an open-air triage tent with thick stone walls. His bed was a modified gurney, complete with wheels, but it seemed just a little bigger than any other gurney he’d ever been on.

And frankly, Benton Fraser had ridden a gurney or two in his day.

Propping himself up on one arm, Fraser scanned the room. More machines, a few more gurneys, yet more machines — ah. He spotted another form, halfway across the room; various machines hooked up to it. He forced himself up and made his way slowly over to Ray’s side. Once there, he stood, at a loss for his next move. Ray was clearly still injured, but it was just as clear that someone had taken care of him. His wounds were cleanly bandaged and an intravenous bag fed a thin stream into his arm. Ray’s thin face was pale; all the lines Fraser knew so well stood out, deeply creased from recent pain. Even his hair, jagged yellow on the pillow, seemed to have lost most of its characteristic defiance. Fraser touched it, wanting the spiky texture to comfort him. But it was limp and sweat-soaked and offered no resistance - wholly unRaylike.

Fraser’s heart skipped, making his breath stutter for a moment in fear. Fraser had no idea where they were. He could see white walls beyond the steel doors, but he would not leave Ray. And Ray needed the machines. Therefore, here they would stay. QED. Besides, Fraser had the suspicion that he might just fall over if he let go of Ray’s gurney. So he didn’t bother. They were safe enough for the time being. He could just stand guard over his partner, stand watch for him. He put out his hand again and stroked the soft wet hair, taking comfort in the nearness of Ray, surrendering coif notwithstanding. Fraser continued petting Ray’s head and watching his chest rise and fall, the proof of Ray’s continued survival mesmerizing and soothing him.

Yes. They could stay for a while.

 

* * * *

 

_Patient number one is awake, Dr. Kuryakin._

"Shut up, Trev’van." Illya was tired and sore. He watched the tender infirmary scene unfold on the monitor in his command and control room. Illya knew this script too well. The blonde kid was going to die. The other one would probably become a liability at that point. Almost certainly, in fact, if Illya was reading all the clues correctly.

_Illya. You know as well as I do, he doesn't…_

"So you’ve told me. Repeatedly." Illya scowled once more at the monitor. At least he’d had time to get a shower. The last thing he would want to have to do would be to have the upcoming conversation covered in the blonde cop’s blood. The Mountie would probably react badly to that. And Illya really didn’t want to have to kill him, at least not until he’d gotten some sleep. Extra adrenaline would just make him twitchy.

**Just give him the choice, Illyushka.**

Illya stopped. "You are dead," he said sternly. "Therefore you do not get a vote." He swept grimly out of the room, headed for the infirmary. "Besides, this is all your fault anyway."

The voice laughed. **Stubborn Russian.**

_He’s right, you know._

Illya paused before the door to the infirmary and pressed his hands to his head. "Both of you," he snapped, "be silent." He glared into the air around him. "It hardly advances your collective cause to have this nice young man realize just how crazy I really am, da? If he thinks _me_ mad, what are the chances he will be able to believe in _you_?"

There was blessed silence.

Illya nodded firmly. "Good. Now stay quiet and let me do the talking."

 

* * * * *

"Awake at last, Sergeant Fraser." Fraser turned too quickly and had to close his eyes against a surge of dizziness. A moment later a strong hand took his arm and guided him to a chair. He breathed deeply, restoring his blood pressure, and opened his eyes to take his first good look at his hitherto unknown host.

The man was lithe and competent-looking. He had ice-blue eyes and ice-blond hair. He looked to be about 35 or 36, although something in his assessing stare made Fraser believe he was much older. His voice was soft, almost feminine and he spoke with a lilting Russian accent worn away by age. He had probably not been back to Russia in decades. He was dressed in a smart black suit, his white shirt unwrinkled and open at the throat.

There were calluses on the hand that had helped Fraser to his chair. Those hands knew both armed and unarmed combat.

Fraser could smell shampoo and soap; the man had showered within the last half-hour. The blue eyes appraising him were red-rimmed - obviously a lack of sleep - but Fraser detected grief in the set of his mouth as well. A recent loss?

Fraser began to ask a question, then frowned and asked a different one. "How do you know my name?" The man reached inside a pocket. Fraser tensed.

Gun?

Taser?

Ah. Remote control.

Fraser relaxed slowly. The other man hit a button and a disembodied voice started mid-sentence. "…forces say they cannot continue the search for the two missing police officers until the winds die down. Hope is dwindling, however, for the possible rescue of Sergeant Fraser and former Detective Kowalski. Candles are being lit in prayer throughout Chicago, Toronto, and Ottawa today, as families pray for…." The voice clicked off.

"They think we’re dead?" Fraser asked. It seemed inconceivable. Surely, even if no one else believed in their survival, Ray Vecchio at the very least would realize….

The man rolled his eyes. "Yes, Sergeant." He curled his lip; no one would mistake it for a smile. "You disappeared completely…out of an airplane…thousands of feet over a frozen tundra…in the middle of a blizzard."

Sarcasm really brought out the Russian accent, Fraser noted absently.

"It’s not official yet. You are still designated as 'missing.' But no one can get within a hundred miles of here right now. Gale-force winds are defeating aircraft and ground transportation alike." He looked at Fraser, no expression on his face. "You and I are the only ones who know that you are still alive."

Fraser felt a growing alarm. In Fraser’s experience, people saying that sort of thing, to him in particular, generally meant they were homicidal maniacs. In fact, generally speaking, he almost always got into these kinds of isolated and dangerous situations because of homicidal maniacs. He kept his voice calm.

"That sounds like a threat."

The man’s gaze didn’t waver. "It is merely a fact."

"Who are you?" Fraser kept his body relaxed through force of habit. Homicidal maniacs, in Fraser’s experience, liked to see you panic. "And where am I?"

He expected an answer to the first question but not the second. Maniacs liked to gloat; he’d foiled many a crime because of that, but they rarely gave away important information like the secret locations of their inevitably poorly hidden hideouts. He was therefore somewhat surprised by the lack of pride in the answer to the first question, and even more surprised to receive an answer at all to the second.

"I am Illya Kuryakin." The man cocked his head and frowned a little. He had a strange look on his face, as if he was listening to something only he could hear. Fraser was not at all reassured by this look, seeming as it did to weigh heavily against the other man in the "is-he-sane" question.

Of course, given his own predilection for semi-public conversations with dead relatives, that could be the mythic "pot/kettle" issue that Diefenbaker was forever accusing him of.

Whatever the cause, his host’s next words were almost apologetic. "I did not mean to seem…hostile." "No, not at all." Fraser lied politely. If the voices in Mr. Kuryakin’s head were chiming in on the Fraser/Ray side, that was quite all right with him. "As for where you are? " The small blond man grimaced and looked around. "We are currently fifty feet below a mountain in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness."

The Alaskan wilderness he would have guessed, there having hardly have been the time to go elsewhere. Under a mountain? "It’s quite lovely." Fraser lied politely again.

This time Illya gave a small but real smile. "No, it isn’t. It’s white and cold up there and white and sterile in here." The smile twisted wryly, became almost a grin. "This is not a cheerful fortress. But at least it’s not cold.

The smile made him look younger and shyer and much, much less crazy. In fact, as the conversation progressed, he began to seem very nearly sane. Fraser began to believe that he could get Ray out of this if he played his cards right. The first thing was to find out what this man wanted from them. "How did we get here?"

"I found you bleeding all over my nice tundra. I had a moment of weakness," a small shrug, "and here you are."

Ah. A reminder that they owed this man their lives.

"We thank you for your kindness." Fraser finally asked the question preying on him. "How soon can we…get out of your way? We wouldn’t want to presume on your hospitality. When will Ray be able to travel?"

Illya Kuryakin lost his smile. "It is not good, my friend." Fraser willed himself not to panic at his host’s immediate return to seriousness, but he couldn’t help struggling to his feet. He suddenly needed to be as near to Ray as possible. Illya crossed around Ray and physically indicated problems as he verbally listed them.

"His colon is pierced in several places. Shrapnel from one of the bullets nearly severed his liver. One of his kidneys is irreparably damaged. His stomach is punctured. His spleen is shot — literally." Illya shook his head. "On top of all these injuries, you both were in the storm for too long before I found you. He has developed necrosis inside his stomach and within part of his large intestine." He contemplated Ray for a moment then shrugged. "At least the arm wound is fairly negligible."

Fraser took a step back and collapsed in the chair again. He looked like he had been shot himself. All the blood in his was face draining out; he looked shell-shocked.

Illya continued on, his voice steady. "I can probably wake him up for you to say your good-byes, but his chances are extremely slim. I have done almost all I can at this point." He turned to walk away.

_My god,_ Fraser thought. _Don’t you feel anything? You just told me that you could do nothing to help my dying partner, you bastard, and with no more feeling than…._

No.

That wasn’t what had been said.

He had said…

Fraser, seizing the linguistic loophole presented to him as if clutching a life preserver called out sharply to the retreating Russian. "Almost?"

Illya didn't respond verbally, but he stopped moving towards the door. Fraser pushed.

"Slim. Not non-existent?"

Illya didn’t turn around, but Fraser could see an internal struggle tensing the muscles in his back and neck. His sweat began to smell ever so slightly more acrid and his pulse edged up a notch.

Fraser’s heart leapt and he climbed to his feet again.

There was something there. There was some kind of hope there for Ray.

Fraser began to advance on the smaller man. "What aren’t you telling me, Mr. Kuryakin?" He knew from the way he moved that the Russian was well trained in combat. But Ray needed him, and if he had to resort to violence to save him, then by gosh he would do just that. He gathered his resolve. If he couldn’t verbally convince Illya to tell him what he was holding back, he would just have to…well…kick him in the head.

Illya whirled around to face his advance. His eyes were cold and he stood his ground as the Mountie advanced. "You do not need to know the things I am not telling you, Sergeant Fraser. They would not ease your mind."

Fraser drew level to Illya, who looked into his furious eyes and did not flinch.

"My secrets are too big, Sergeant Fraser. They are not available for a momentary or temporary solution."

"I would appreciate the chance to make that choice myself."

As the argument gained shape and direction, the two men stood toe to toe. Fraser towered over the smaller Russian, but Illya met his furious glare squarely, refusing to be intimidated. He shot back. "It would not be your choice. It would be Ray’s. Once this information is on the table, you will cease to have control of the outcome."

_Oh,_ Fraser thought grimly, _you really don’t know me very well, do you?_

"The knowledge that I possess would present Ray with choices that could conceivably change your relationship with him, possibly forever. In fact, it could change both your whole life and his."

Fraser arched a brow. "And his death would preserve the status quo exactly how?" Illya dropped his voice, his accent even thicker.

"Sergeant Fraser, beware. You are choosing to create a whirlpool in your life, driving your vessel directly for the straits. You will find yourself between Scylla and Charybdis." The pain in the other man’s voice was palpable.

Fraser took two steps backward. He looked at Illya, really looked at him. For the first time in years, Benton Fraser truly began to fear for Ray Kowalski.

Always before there had been some way to beat the odds, even if he’d occasionally had to carry Ray up a mountain on his back. Whether lost below the ocean on a sinking ship or crossing the border on the wing of a plane, they always won through in the end. That’s what they did; they were heroes and they were a duet. Winning through, together, despite the odds - that had always been the essence of their partnership.

Fraser set about to make an appeal. He prepared to use every non-verbal trick at his command to back up his plea. Aware of the theatricality of the moment, he lowered his head slightly, then looked back at Illya.

"Ray once attempted to end our partnership," Fraser said after a long moment. "He pointed out that I can, at times, be a bit overbearing."

He grimaced ironically. He was gearing up to be as overbearing as possible — Ray would understand. The heat was gone from his voice. He pled for Illya’s understanding with his eyes, with his body, with his voice. He could feel his posture straighten. Ray called it his "Hero Mountie" act; the way that he would convince his partners to endanger themselves in 'wildly bizarre ways.' He had always preferred to believe it was the power of sincerity.

Whatever the truth, he hoped to God it would work on Illya.

"He pointed out that I had developed a habit of acting first and explaining later. This always seemed to work for me before Ray. In fact it had worked exceptionally well with my first partner." He frowned, momentarily distracted, then put that thought away for later. "Ray was…different…from anyone else I’d ever worked with. Others either treated me as an idiot savant, refusing to listen to my reasoning and then claiming full knowledge and support of my ideas when the job was done, or they simply pointed me at a job and got out of my way. I had taken to simply acting when the heat of the moment arrived. I found it was easier to beg pardon later than to beg for permission before."

Fraser shot a look at Ray, still and small, then looked back at Illya. "Ray challenged me. He would listen. Not always graciously - his nature was too raw for that. But he would listen. And he would also demand that I do things his way on occasion. He forced me to respect his instincts."

Fraser stepped forward again, bringing himself back to Illya’s space. "My father once said to me, ‘A partnership is like a marriage.’ If there is information that Ray needs to make the most important decision in his life, then I need to get it for him, for he is clearly incapable of pursuing you or your truth. And yes, even harder for my particular disposition is that I must also then trust in whatever decision he makes. Ultimately it must be his decision. I know that. It took me a very long time with Ray, but I know that now."

"Please," he added, helplessly. "Ray’s death, if that is what is to be…let it be Ray's decision. Not mine. Not yours. His."

_So long as it is the correct one._ Fraser added silently, not taking his eyes from Illya.

Illya’s eyes grew vague for a moment, and then his mouth set in a cold, angry line. "It seems I am outvoted." He said at last.

Fraser had no idea what that meant, but his heart began to beat again. Illya stalked over to a nearby table, resentment pouring off of him. His voice was almost sulky.

"Let us wake the sleeping beauty and see what his decision will be."


	2. Act 2: "Just lemme close my eyes for a minute."

**Act 2:**

_**"Just lemme close my eyes for a minute."** _

 

Ray swam up through clouds of fog.

_Bloom…close…kick 'em in the head._

Fraser was somewhere near; he could feel him. He tried to reach out but his arm ached sharply and he couldn’t lift it. Then he realized his kicks weren't as powerful as he thought they were. In fact, he wasn’t actually kicking at all.

In fact…

Ow.

Oh, man. Everything below his waist was radiating pain. Even his dick hurt.

He worried about that for a moment.

_Fraser_ , he tried to say. _My dick hurts._

Nothing happened.

He tried to open his eyes.

Nothing happened.

Ray was beginning to seriously freak the fuck out. Everything hurt, including his goddamned dick, and he couldn’t talk or see or move his arms or any-fucking-thing. He flashed on that one Metallica video, with the kid and the hospital and all, and panic threatened to overwhelm him. Ray began to quiver as he tried to thrash around and found himself immobile. His breathing became shallow and quick as his body did its damnedest to hyperventilate.

A large hand touched his hair.

Ray relaxed a bit. He tried to calm himself, slow down his breathing like Fraser had tried to teach him. Fraser was out there. He would find a way to get Ray’s body to stop hurting and start working. If Fraser was here, at least he wasn’t dying.

"You are dying, Mr. Kowalski."

OK, who the fuck was that? The guy sounded cold and foreign, Russian maybe? Ray really wanted to mention the whole submarine thing, maybe get some points for that, but he still couldn’t talk.

He did manage to make a noise.

"Don’t try to speak, Ray."

_Fraser. Get me the fuck out of here._

But Fraser sounded worried. And that was always a bad sign. Fraser never _sounded_ worried. Even when certain death was looming, Fraser just told it some weird story and certain death got bored and went to loom over someone else.

_It hurts, Ben_. Ray tried to say. He felt victorious when a whimper escaped. See, noise. Yeah, baby. That's right. Getting better all the time. Absolutely  not dying, whatever the Russkie thought.

"He’s in pain," Fraser said. He sounded more than worried. Fraser sounded pissed. In some way, this was more disturbing. You really had to work to get Fraser to _sound_ pissed. Fraser _got_ pissed quite often; he just didn’t advertise it.

"I had to clear the drugs out of his system. He must be lucid and in possession of his faculties to make this choice."

Ray immediately tried to telepathically signal his desire for more drugs. The pain was fucking _incredible_. He felt like he’d been gut-shot. Or at least what he’d always imagined being gut-shot would feel like, never having actually been….

The cocksucker on the plane. The friggin’ jump of death. He _had_ been gut-shot. Why wasn’t he drugged anymore? Whose grand idea was this?

"Ray, wake up."

Fraser. Goddamn Fraser. This had to be his idea. A new Inuit way to heal a gunshot or something. When they got out of this mess, Fraser was going to have some ‘splainin' to do. Ray felt an ice chip pressed between his lips.

Oh god, water… Immediately he forgave Fraser for everything. He was so _amazingly_ thirsty. He felt like his lips were welded together by chap.

A warm, wet cloth stroked his face; sure and deft Fraserstrokes. He could feel gunk peeling off his eyes and nearly wept. Blindness was an old nightmare, one he could do without right now. He had a brand spanking new nightmare to deal with. The one where he couldn’t move his legs.

More ice, more water down his throat. Ray began to feel his voice under the dead cat in his voice box. He hoped his breath wouldn’t be too funky when they finally pried his lips apart.

The TLC continued until Ray could open his eyes. The Russkie looked pretty much like he sounded, stuck-up and a bit fey. Ray knew all about glass houses, but hey. The guy just looked kinda girly.

He shifted his gaze to Fraser, who looked like shit. He had dark circles under his beautiful dark blue-gray eyes, his complexion was even paler than normal, and his famously unmussable dark hair was totally fucked up.

He looked like Ray felt. Except for, fairly obviously, the grueling shitloads of pain.

Blond Russian Guy was feeding him ice while Fraser kept wiping him. Ray was done being wiped; his skin was getting hot. However, Fraser still looked fairly terrified, so Ray let him be. He had other, more pressing issues anyway, like that whole "dying" comment.

"Bn?" Ray managed, and Fraser stopped wiping. He had a chair pulled up on one side of Ray, with the fey Russian on the other. His eyes were a little wild and unfocused. Ray wanted to comfort him, but couldn’t yet move.

"Ray, this is Illya Kuryakin. He’s our host. He brought us in from the snowstorm."

Ray flicked his eyes over towards Illya. Illya Kuryakin didn’t look all that hostly. In fact, Illya Kuryakin looked fairly pissed himself. Ray wondered what Fraser had talked _him_ into.

"Your injuries are quite substantial, Mr. Kowalski." The cool, clipped tones were exactly right for that face. Ray wondered about that for a moment, then pulled himself back and made himself focus. It was hard. His body was in so much pain that his mind kept wandering, trying to distance itself. But Ray knew they were talking about that dying thing; he needed to hear this.

Kuryakin went on.

"I shall not outline them now. I have already done so once, for your partner. Suffice to say you have sustained massive trauma to your abdomen."

Not the dick. Thank God.

"I believe that the best solution would be to ease your pain and let you pass in peace. Your partner wishes you to make a Faustian bargain. We have agreed to lay the facts before you. "

Kuryakin stood. Ray was fully focused now. No way was he going to "pass in peace." He planned on kicking heads the whole way.

The icy stare of the Russian bored into Ray. "I have said all I can say on this. I will introduce your… _other_ host. He will explain to you the facts."

He shot a look that Ray couldn’t read at Fraser.

"Remember. I did warn you."

He dropped his head slightly…and then his eyes started to fucking _glow_.

Fraser gasped and clutched Ray’s arm. Ray was trying to back away sharply; muscles that were still unresponsive defeated him.

He did manage a "Hly sht!"

That pretty much summed it up.

After the initial glow, the eyes went back to blue. However, Kuryakin opened his mouth and a whole new voice emerged. It was rough and oddly cavernous, like it was echoing through Kuryakin’s entire body. It sounded like electronic vocal distortion, which was really disturbing 'cause it was actually coming out of this guy’s mouth.

"I am Trev’van." He said. Ray and Fraser gaped at him, mouths open. He said gently, "I believe we can help each other."

 

* * * * *

The story that Trev’van spun was fairly wacko science fiction. He told them about his species and how they had to bond with other species to survive. He said some of them had become pretty whacked out and proclaimed themselves gods. He mentioned a war and named himself a "Resistance leader."

Basically, the guy would be right at home on any given big city street corner. Ray wouldn’t have flipped him a quarter if it weren’t for the whole glowing eyes bit.

Fraser seemed frozen. He just held Ray’s hand tightly and refused to look at him.

That worried Ray. A lot. It meant that Fraser had made some decision about all this. And if Ray was going to have a say in this decision, he would have to fight Ben to get it. And he was barely able to hold his own with Fraser when he _could_ talk. Fraser was generally one hell of a steamroller; in fact, in his red tunic, he was a lot like the Little Fucking Engine That Could.

Also, the not-having-a-dick thing? Right now, that was a liability. Fraser could generally be worked better after a bout of hot sex.

Trev’van had wound down. He met Ray’s eyes steadily, no hint of fear. He had to know how crazy this whole thing sounded, but Ray kept coming back to the glowing eyes and the echoing voice. His common sense was telling him one thing, and his senses were saying another.

Ray mentally reviewed the story. The upshot seemed to be that Trev’van’s girlfriend or wife or mate or whatever, was currently hostless. Ray was unclear how that worked, but again, whatever. The glowy-eyed girlie wanted to get with him, Ray Kowalski, currently uninhabited by any consciousness but his own.

Ray wasn’t sure about how he felt. This whole "sharing a soul" idea seemed a little…much. Most of the thoughts that went through Ray’s head were probably best left unshared. On the other hand, it could be very sexy. Ray had this image of some drop-dead beautiful chick, probably with blue skin like that lady on that show.

_Damn, why’d they cancel that show anyway? It was really fucking good. And she’d done that thing with that guy’s head, and then they had, like, become part of each other…and man! That guy had the best toys! Maybe, if he did this thing with the chick and all, maybe he could wear a leather trench coat, and shoot things, and have a gun with a girl’s name and that’d be cool. _

Ray shook his head, slightly.

_Focus, Stanley Ray. Get your skinny butt with the program here._

Next important fact. If one was to believe the self-proclaimed cult leader, Trev’van’s species could heal incredibly serious wounds; could, in fact, quite probably save Ray’s life. There was no bad in that that Ray could see. The "dying" comment just kept coming back to him. He’d only had five years with Fraser and only two of sex with Fraser. That was not enough, not nearly. So. Not dying? Thumbs up to that idea.

And then there was another thing. These guys were soldiers in some war between people Ray had never heard of, and frankly couldn’t recall. He’d kinda skipped that part of Trev’s lecture. He was still back on the whole "other species" thing. The image of the blue lady had been fairly strong. And she had been naked in his head.

Mmmmmm…blue chick.

"Two more things, Ray." Ray looked at Trev’van, mind still whirring and ticking. "The first is that the joining must be mutually desired. Joining extends the human life span tremendously, and it is no small thing to share a soul for a hundred or so years."

He paused to let that "hundred years" comment sink in, and believe you me, Ray was thinking about it. A hundred more years of sex with Fraser. He could work with that.

Trev’van went on.

"Secondly, Shir and I are both devoted to our cause. Illya was a fortunate choice; he was both trained for conflict and philosophically devoted to justice. From the reports I’ve gathered since your arrival here, you would both also be ideal. But it is a sacrifice. And not a light one. You would only be able to sustain your current life for a short while, although you would not have to lose contact with those you love. Your role in the war would be a secret one; for the safety not only of those you love, but of your whole planet."

Ray was used to that. Par for the undercover course. He was still mulling that "hundred years" comment. Fraser seemed taken aback, however. He asked softly. "And if we — Ray, that is — was not prepared to become a "soldier" for your war?"

Trev’van spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness.

"Shir would not accept him." Ray blinked.

That was…unexpected.

Trev’van continued matter-of-factly, "Shir has the same choice to make as Ray does. Without a host, she is helpless to act in the world. But just as we do not believe in bending others to our will, we are not prepared to become slaves ourselves."

Ray realized he had not accounted for this eventuality. New doubts assailed him. What if Shir didn’t like him? What if he went through all this thinking and imagining this bizarre world these guys seemed to inhabit, only to be rejected and die anyway? The blue lady in his head was totally hot. Granted, so was Fraser, but no one was asking Fraser to inhabit Ray’s head. Fraser would sleep with Ray, but he’d probably never want to live in his head.

In fact, if the blue chick was in his head, it could be like a menagerie…meringue…a threesome.

Ray mentally shook his head. That was _so_ not something he could contemplate right now. Not until his dick was much, much less useless. He had a much more basic choice in front of him. And he was getting more and more tired.

His body was giving out, he thought, in a moment of clarity. It was time to move. Shit or get off the pot. He could choose death or he could become 'one' with the Wacky Warrior Species.

Really, it wasn’t much of a contest. He generally trusted his instincts and they were telling him that he had nothing to lose by giving this thing a shot. The worst that could happen was that he would die, and that was pretty much a guarantee no matter what. Everybody died.

He tugged Fraser’s arm. It took a lot of strength. It alarmed him how much strength it took.

Everybody died, yeah; he just didn’t really want to do it right this second.

Fraser refocused on him. His eyes were burning and the color was back in his face; in fact, he seemed to be getting red.

"Wnna doit, Bn." Ray managed.

Fraser’s eyes grew wide; he let out a shout. "What?

"Wanna…wchcallit? Wanna 'join'."

Fraser shot a venomous look at Trev’van. Then he began again, voice lowered, "Ray, you cannot be serious…"

"We’ll leave you two to talk it out." Trev’van looked grave, but somehow Ray could sense he was pleased. Fraser must have really ruffled this guy's feather. He looked like the cat with the canary. Illya/Trev'van bowed slightly and left the room.

Predictably, Fraser exploded.

"You can _not_ be serious, Ray! Illya Kuryakin is _obviously_ a demented and no doubt highly dangerous _lunatic_. He _clearly_ suffers from some form of paranoid schizophrenia and, though I believe the two rarely combine, possibly Dissociative Identity Disorder as well..."

Ray felt an almost overwhelming surge of love, mixed with familiar sense of irritation. Fraser was clearly gearing up for a monumental bitch session. The syllables would be flying thick and fast. Ray hoped Fraser would pause for breath if any serious complication were to occur, like Ray’s actual death.

God. He loved this man. But Benton Fraser could be such a….

"We are _completely_ cut off from any other options and well he knows it. All this utter nonsense about 'other species'…. What does he take us for? Complete _imbeciles_?"

Oh, yeah. There go the fifty-cent words. Ray sighed and began to drift away. He couldn’t fight his body and Ben at the same time. The rhythm of Fraser’s voice began to lull him down, down through the heavy water that made everything so very far away. He was only peripherally aware when Fraser stopped ranting about Illya. The sounds of a scuffle didn't quite penetrate the sound of his own breathing roaring through his head. He couldn't feel hands on his body at all.

His ears were still tuned to Fraser, however. Dimly, he heard Fraser saying his name over and over, like when he was walking in the wrong direction. He wanted to respond, to call out to Fraser, but he was just so damned tired.

_It’s all right._ He tried to say. _Just lemme close my eyes for a second._

_I’ll be right back_

 

 

* * * * *

Fraser watched, white-faced and shaking as Illya held a bizarre red stone over Ray’s body. It had started to glow when Illya began running through the air over Ray's still body. Fraser could see Ray’s chest start to move again and he exhaled himself, subconsciously breathing in a synchronous rhythm.

Ray had stopped breathing and he hadn’t noticed. He had been so caught up in his righteous indignation that he’d almost lost Ray through sheer blindness. Waves of guilt crashed over him.

When Illya had come bursting into the room he’d thought at first that the attack he’d been expecting had finally arrived. He’d braced himself and fought, thrown a punch at the smaller man. Illya had blocked the punch, hit him, and thrown him clear across the room with almost contemptuous ease. He then rushed to Ray’s side. Fraser looked up in time to see Illya press his head against Ray’s chest. Only then did Fraser realize that the machine was flashing red and Ray’s breathing was almost non-existent.

"Ray…Ray…Ray…I’m sorry," he’d finally whispered, frozen on the floor, staring at the suddenly furious Russian performing CPR on his partner. Illya hadn’t answered; he’d just thrown his entire being into saving Ray.

How had he ever thought this man cold? A steady flow of gutter Russian invective poured out of Illya’s mouth, but his hands were steady. Once Ray’s breathing stabilized, the pale and shaking Kuryakin fumbled with the red device, lying close by on a nearby table and began holding it over Ray’s stomach, wielding it with a look of absolute concentration.

Fraser crept back to the gurney, standing next to his host and probable savior. Illya spared no attention for him; beads of sweat rolling down his face. The fluid Russian words had stopped, now Illya was muttering sotto voce, "Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. _Damn_ you, man. _Live_."

Fraser added his silent prayer to the chorus, white-knuckled and shocked.

The light on the unfamiliar machine blinked from red to green.

Illya slowly lowered his arm as the red light on the device he held went out.

"He’s stable." The cool voice was quiet and a little rough. "I can keep him like this for a while." His cold blue eyes met Fraser’s hot, guilty ones. Benton couldn’t hold Illya's gaze. He looked at the floor, feeling small and horribly ashamed.

"I have prepared a room for you, one door down that hallway." Kuryakin went on, no hint of blame or judgment. He could scarcely excoriate Fraser better then Fraser himself was doing at this very moment. "You should go. Take a bath and a nap. I will be working here for a few hours. There is an intercom system. I will call for you if anything changes."

Fraser looked at him, not wanting to leave Ray. Illya looked furious again. "I cannot take care of you both! Your partner needs you. You are no good to him as you are. Go. Now. Rest." He took up position over Ray again, clearly dismissing Fraser as he prepared to raise the red device again.

Fraser watched for another moment, then turned and left.

There was nothing he could do now.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

Illya was concentrating on trying to heal some of the damage to Ray’s liver when Trev’van piped up.

_The pretty one needs sleep. After that, what are the odds he goes exploring?_

Illya gritted his teeth, concentrating ferociously.

"I’d bet Ray’s life on it,"

He grinned suddenly at his invisible companions.

"In fact," he added dryly, "I am."

 

 


	3. Act 3  "That took a lot longer than I expected."

**Act 3**

_**"That took a lot longer than I expected."** _

 

 

_He was trapped below the deck of the Henry Allen. The ship lurched and heaved and he could hear water crashing through decking all around. The ship was sinking fast. He had to find Ray._

_He called Ray’s name, frantic. He kicked open doors and raced down stairs, but there was no answer but the sound of steel groaning under the weight of the ocean, breaking down into pieces and being swallowed._

_A familiar door loomed, larger than any door he’d ever seen. Ray was behind it, he knew. He threw himself against the door, pounding and tugging with all his might. His fingers were torn and bloody when the door finally,_ finally _flew open._

_The room was full of water, clear icy blue and terribly cold. He could see Ray clearly, one hand handcuffed to the floor, floating, his eyes open and aware. Ray’s free hand stretched out, pleading for Fraser to save him, help him, and unlock his cuffs. To give him air and warm his body. To teach him how to swim. He could see Ray’s mouth move, shaping the syllables of Fraser’s name. Fraser dove at the wall of water, desperate to get to Ray._

_And the water was as solid as iron._

_Fraser bounced off of the crystalline blue wall, rebounding backwards with vicious momentum. Stunned, he lay there for a moment, shaking his head. Then he scrambled to his feet and threw himself at the clear blue prison, beating on the solid water and screaming Ray’s name._

_Ray was growing panicky, twisting and turning in the liquid that surrounded him. His pinioned hand leaked traces of red into the ocean as the steel circlet bit into his wrist. Bubbles sprayed from his mouth, carrying his cries upwards, away from Fraser. Fraser grappled frantically with the slick wet barrier; he couldn’t get a grip on it._

_Ray was slowing down, starting to go limp. Fraser felt like his heart would stop the exact moment that Ray’s did. He redoubled his efforts, feeling tears of frustration roll down his face and mix with the salt spray on his lips._

_And then a slim blond form swam into view. Illya Kuryakin slid through the water, sleek and beautiful as a predator. He took hold of Ray’s pinched white face and pressed his lips to Ray’s. Buddy breathing. Standard procedure. That was what one was supposed to do. Basic Mountie training. Fraser could see Ray’s chest expand and felt relief. Relief, however, inextricably intertwined with an entirely new sense of terror. He slumped in the doorway, pressing his hands and face to the wall of water as if it were a glass window he couldn’t break._

_Illya took his mouth from Ray’s and the two smiled at each other. Then they turned and looked at Fraser, identical looks of triumph on their faces, ice-blonde and dirty-blonde hair waving and tangling together in the press of surrounding current._

_Both pairs of blue eyes began to glow…_

 

 

Fraser woke with a start. He was in a small room, white and sterile like the room Ray was in. His tunic and pants lay over a chair. He had stumbled into the room, stripped, and taken a hot shower. He’d thought then that he would cry, but everything still remained frozen just under his breastbone. He touched his sternum. He could feel grief lumped there, pulling at his ribs with every breath.

After the shower he'd collapsed naked on the bed and passed out. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, but he was acutely aware of the opposing needs of both his stomach and his bladder.

Finding a small restroom, he took care of the first, most pressing need. Upon his exit he spied a tray, miraculously provided, which held a bowl of soup and a ham sandwich. After pulling on his pants, but leaving the tunic where it was for the moment, Fraser carried the tray with him - careful not to spill the soup - and went to check on Ray.

The machine light was green. Ray was still with him. Fraser sat and watched Ray breathe. He ate his sandwich and soup. He found a pitcher of water on the nearby table and drank three glasses. He laid his head on Ray’s chest for a moment, just to hear his heartbeat. Finally he sighed, leaned in, and kissed Ray on his soft, slack mouth.

Then Benton Fraser, Sergeant in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, went hunting. He was determined to find out everything he could about the strange and enigmatic Russian man who promised salvation and whose cold eyes glowed in the dark.

Fraser walked quickly down the long white hallway. He tested door after door; all were locked. He found a fork in the hallway and took a few steps down each corridor, sniffing the air cautiously. One smelled more strongly of Illya than the other, so he followed Illya’s scent. He hoped to find a workroom or an office, or even Illya’s room, provided Illya was elsewhere, of course. He needed information and he needed it quickly.

He tried every door he passed, and one finally opened under his hand. He looked around, checking for his 'host', then slipped into the small room.

There had to be something here he could use.

 

* * * * *

 

 

"That took a lot longer than I expected."

**The man was exhausted, tovarisch. He needed the sleep. Don’t be too hard on him.**

_Yes, Illya, I have to agree. He’s devoted, but he’s only human._

Illya sniffed. "I would have found the room six hours ago."

 ** _Yes, Illya._** The beloved voices sighed in unison. **_We know_.**

 

* * * * *

 

Fraser located a small lamp and switched it on, then closed the door completely. He couldn’t locate a locking mechanism, so he ignored the risk and surveyed the room. It appeared to be identical to the one he had slept in, a small bed, a desk, and a bedside table. He sat down at the desk and looked at the two objects arranged carefully on the dark brown polished wood of the desktop.

They were two photographs, both framed, standing at opposite corners. One was clearly a picture of Illya Kuryakin, rumpled and naked, modesty barely preserved under the edge of a dark blue sheet. He had obviously just come awake, and his whole face reflected a deep passion and love for the photographer. Blond hair fell into one eye, making him look mischievous and elfin.

Fraser looked at that picture but didn’t touch it. Not yet. He would pick it up in a minute, but he felt oddly reticent to intrude on his host’s privacy, even on an avowed reconnaissance mission. He looked at the other picture, picking it up after only a momentary hesitation. This one was a more complex image; it required careful study.

The other picture was, of all things, a surveillance photo. A man and a woman were being watched through a telephoto lens. Fraser calculated the camera angle and concluded that the picture had most probably been taken from a rooftop while the subjects were on the balcony of an adjoining building. The female subject was blond and dressed in a low-cut evening gown, probably manufactured in the late 1960s'. Her back was to the photographer, her attention on the man in front of her. The male subject was swarthy and suave, dark hair perfectly curved. He wore a tuxedo with casual ease, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass. Fraser looked closely; it appeared to be a champagne flute, at least half full.

The gentleman held himself at a perfect angle, by all appearances devoting his attention to the woman he was flirting with. But his eyes stared directly into the camera, a curve to his lips that lit his entire face. With dancing eyes he turned the picture into private joke, one captured by a spy over a great distance. It became a carefully disguised flirtation with the hidden camera instead of the blatant seduction of the obvious girl that the rest of the world was witnessing. The dark man held his glass loosely — only from the eye of the camera could one see that it was tilted upwards in a private salute.

The picture frame felt fractionally heavier than it should given the relative weight of both frame and photograph. Fraser turned the photo over and undid the frame’s backing. Behind the picture was a flat card, with a picture of the man in the surveillance photo. The card identified the man as Napoleon Solo, Number One, Section Two. The logo and the agency identification on the card were of the U.N.C.L.E.

Fraser’s eyes widened. Why did Illya Kuryakin have a surveillance picture of an enforcement agent from the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement? And an oddly intimate one, at that? This was a decidedly strange addition to the puzzle.

Fraser recalled that the intelligence agency in question was once one of the best international law enforcement entities in the world. Politics had eroded its potency, and the Cold War had ended it completely, but U.N.C.L.E. was still a legend within the myriad global intelligence communities. He tried to remember the different departments, having only skimmed one dossier on the organization in his youth, back at the Depot.

Section Two was 'Enforcement and Operations', if he remembered correctly.

Spies.

Agents of change.

The men and women who risked everything to preserve law and order.

Fraser looked at the picture again. This ‘Napoleon Solo’ had been the number one enforcement agent, the Chief Enforcement Agent, in fact, provided Fraser was remembering the rank system correctly, of a nearly unparalleled multi-national intelligence agency.

He flipped the photo over. Spiky black handwriting admonished, "Do your bloody job, Napasha." It was signed "IK."

Fraser grabbed the other picture, the lovely and laughing Illya photo, and undid the backing of that picture as well. Another U.N.C.L.E. identification badge fell out. This one identified the stern blond picture as Illya Kuryakin, Number Two, Section Two.

Fraser frowned. This didn't make sense. Illya _Kuryakin_ was an extremely high ranking U.N.C.L.E. agent? He couldn’t possibly be. That organization hadn’t even existed for the last twenty years. Kuryakin was no older than Fraser himself, younger even, certainly no more than thirty-six.

Fraser flipped over the picture of Illya. Strong, almost unintelligible handwriting proclaimed, "I’d rather do you, tovarisch. N."

Fraser stared at the two photos, then looked around the desk for more clues. He found a thin typewritten note dated November 21, 1969.

Dear Mr. Kuryakin.

While I understand your impulse to resign, given the revelation of your truly intimate relationship with Mr. Solo, I cannot let you two go without some effort on my part to change your minds. Even thought I cannot, in all honesty, believe that such an action would not be required, were this information to be leaked to the rest of our organization. However, both you and Mr. Solo are among the finest agents I’ve had the pleasure of commanding. To lose both my Chief Enforcement Agent and his equally skilled partner, my Number Two, would be a blow to both the integrity and efficacy of our cause.

I would also, I dare to say, count it as a personal loss.

Please, Mr. Kuryakin, take some time to think this over. You and Mr. Solo, while ultimately expendable as we all are, are well-nigh irreplaceable.

Sincerely,

Alexander Waverly

Section One, Number One

 

* * * * *

 

When Fraser made his way back to the infirmary, Illya was standing over Ray, glowing red device once more in hand.

Fraser watched him for a moment, mind whirling. He was piecing together a story that was, quite frankly, incredible.

"You didn’t resign because of your relationship," he said slowly, the story beginning to take shape in his mind.

Illya did not look up. "No. We didn’t."

"You resigned because of…" Fraser didn’t even know how to phrase it. 'The strange aliens in your head,' sounded so….Raylike.

"Trev’van and Shir. Yes."

"Why?" Fraser asked. "Why volunteer to fight someone else's war?"

Illya stopped working on Ray. He stood for a moment, looking off into the middle distance, his eyes very far away. Finally he put the red device gently down on the table and looked at Fraser, meeting his anguished stare with resolve and no little sadness. "Do you believe in the concept of universal justice, Sergeant Fraser?"

Fraser blinked. "Yes, as a matter of fact, Mr. Kuryakin. I do."

Illya smiled, a pensive and melancholy look washing over his features. "Then believe me when I say that, though the battleground changed, the war remained the same."

Fraser shook his head, helplessly.

"I don’t understand."

Illya pursed his lips, shook his head. "It is not important right now. We will talk of this later, _da_?" He looked down at Ray. "He has an important decision to make. We must introduce him to Shir so that they may decide on each other, or not."

 

 

* * * * *

 

Ray swam back up, leaving the warmth and searching for Fraser. He could hear voices, one rich and familiar, the other cool and accented. Those guys were _still_ talking? Jeez. He still didn’t feel entirely up to taking Fraser on, but maybe if he simply lay here for a while he could figure out what was going on between these two.

Kuryakin was saying, "Do you believe in the concept of universal justice, Sergeant Fraser?"

Fraser sounded cautious but less mad than he had before. "Yes, as a matter of fact, Mr. Kuryakin. I do."

"Then believe me when I say that, though the battleground changed, the war remained the same."

Helplessly, "I don’t understand."

"It is not important right now. We will talk of this later, _da_? He has an important decision to make. We must introduce him to Shir so that they may decide on each other, or not."

"Wait!" Fraser sounded sharp and a little bit desperate. "How can any of this be true? You should be almost seventy years old. What happened to Napoleon Solo? I don’t understand."

There was a sharp inhale at the unfamiliar name. Ray started pulling all the new information into the mix. Chalk up one for whacko sci-fi guy. He seemed to have stopped Fraser’s little red engine.

"Trev’van told you that the symbiote lengthens the average human lifespan. Trev’van and I joined over thirty years ago, and I’ve scarcely aged. And that is just the beginning. A joined human is virtually immune to disease, and our wounds heal faster. We need almost no sleep, and we can survive situations that would kill most non-joined humans. Also we are quite a bit stronger, as you’ve experienced first-hand."

"Yes, I remember." Slow, a hint of...shame? What did this guy do to Fraser? Hey….

"Although I must apologize…"

Illya made a little impatient noise. Okay. Ray felt himself subsiding. Kuryakin hadn’t hurt Ben. Whatever had gone down, Fraser was all right.

Fraser was talking again. Surprise. Were these guys ever going to get the chick in here?

"With all of these benefits, why did you try to hide this from us? Why not bring up the possibility immediately?"

Ray would have rolled his eyes if he could. How could Fraser _not_ understand this? Did he hit his head or something?

With difficulty Ray managed to murmur, "Permanent."

Both men looked at him.

"Mr. Kowalski is perfectly correct, Sergeant Fraser." Kuryakin said. "Joining with a symbiote is permanent. In most instances, only the death of one or the other can separate them, although the symbiote can flee in extreme circumstances to another host. Generally, however, this only happens when death is threatened." Illya directed his next question at Fraser. "This choice changes Ray’s life entirely. It also changes yours. What are you willing to do to stay with him?"

There was a moment of silence then a low, "Was that what happened with Napoleon Solo?"

 _Who?_ Ray was starting to lose the thread of this conversation, not to mention a familiar, heavy feeling was starting to creep up.

"In a way, yes. But not the way you’re thinking. Napoleon joined with Shir first, actually in somewhat equally desperate circumstances. We continued working for U.N.C.L.E. for about a year after that. The two had gotten separated and it took us about that much time to track down Trev’van’s former host. She was incarcerated on a distant planet. We resigned from U.N.C.L.E. specifically to find her. For reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, I ultimately chose to join with Trev’van."

Mentally, Ray rolled his eyes. It was official. He was going to _die_. These two were going to keep talking and talking and talking….

**He's needed to talk about this for a while, Ray.**

_Does he have to do it right now?_ Ray tried to say to the man who had somehow just appeared, and was standing over him. Oddly enough, the guy seemed to hear him. He grinned crookedly, with a warm flash of white teeth.

**Illya always did have a strange sense of timing.**

Even more oddly, this conversation didn't seem all that odd to Ray at this moment. The dying thing probably had something to do with it. Also the fact that the guy looked a lot like Ben, dark and perfect. He was wearing an impeccable gray suit and tie and his hair did that swoop thing that perfect hair somehow managed to do.

**Thank you.**

"I do not regret it," Illya was saying in the background, his softly accented voice a strange counterpoint to Ray’s conversation with Über-Ben.

 **Call me Napoleon**.

"Ray will have a greater purpose if this goes forward. Can you understand that?"

Fraser was silent for a minute. Then, lowering his voice, he said. "All of those things are true. But they are not the reason you didn’t offer this solution."

Ray bitterly appealed to his new friend Napoleon.

_So how do I get them to stop talking about me and get around to joining me with the blue chick?_

A perfect dark eyebrow arched.

**Blue chick?**

_You know, Trev's girlfriend._

**Ah. Shir. Well. You will be devastated to know that she is, in fact, not blue.**

_Do not 'ah' me. Only Ben gets to 'ah' me. And I hate it when he does that._

The well-dressed guy glanced over at Illya again, then leaned over to look Ray in the eye.

 **I'm going to help you**. He said. **I'll give you strength. Just do exactly what I say**.

 

* * * *

"I can't say that I understand this…situation…or even that I yet believe…your assertions…but I do feel strongly that…"

Illya watched Fraser lean forward to point out yet another reason why not only was this a terrible idea, but it was definitely one that they should give some serious thought to. His heart was racing. If this stranger took Shir, where would Napoleon go? Would his ghost stay with the symbiote? All his memories were in there with Shir.

**Ahem**

Illya whipped around, but Napoleon was nowhere to be seen. He interrupted the increasingly long-winded rant from the Mountie in front of him.

"Napasha?" he said. He went closer to Ray, peering suspiciously around the prone figure. He edged forward to look into Ray's eyes, searching.

And a slender arm shot out and grasped him by the front of his shirt.

He found himself staring into wide eyes, the most peculiar shade of blue/gray he'd ever seen. They seemed to have some kind of gold flecks…

"Shut up, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Shut up, Benton Fraser. Both of you, just shut up, shut up…shut up. Just. Shut. Up. "

Oh dear.

The patient was not at all happy.

 

* * * * *

With energy pouring through him from his unknown accomplice, Ray finally felt like he could kick some heads and get to the 'saving his life' part of the evening. He shook the girly blond Russian guy. Then did it again, 'cause it felt really good.

"You both suck. Do you realize that I'm freakin' dying here? Can you get off your drama queen asses and maybe, oh, I don't know, save my freakin' _life_?"

"Ray…"

"No, Ben. N. O. You do NOT get to apologize. You do NOT get to wallow. Do you know what you get to do? You and Illya freaking Kuryakin get to put that freaking snake - snake? Snake? What snake?" Ray let go of Illya abruptly and looked around, eyes wide. "You didn’t say _nothin’_ about a fucking _snake_."

**You would prefer to die?**

Ray banged his head against the bed for a moment. "You suck too." He complained bitterly.

"It is your choice." Illya snapped.

Ray wrinkled his nose and quivered all over for a moment. He seemed to go into a mini-convulsion, thrashing around and beating his fists against the bed. He tried to get up, and all energy seemed to leave him between one breath and the next.

**Once again, Mr. Kowalski, the question remains — do you choose death, or the…snake, as you so aptly described her?**

Ray panted for another moment, then snapped "Right. Fine. Whatever." He turned and looked directly at Illya. "Get the freaking snake."

Illya turned and crossed to the other end of the huge white room.

"I don't think you've thought this through completely, Ray…." Fraser began worriedly.

"Well, considering I'm freaking DYING, Frase, that's not really an issue here." Ray looked at Illya, who was bringing over the container with a wriggling…yi.

Wow. Napoleon really did mean 'snake', didn’t he?

It swirled sinuously in the container of clear fluid, its long body propelling it through the liquid. Raised fin-like things made it seem almost more fishlike, but the triangular mouth was unlike anything Ray had ever seen before.

Ray could feel hysteria creeping back up, but it was do or….

It was time to make the fucking choice.

"Ok. Right. Snake. Check. Witnesses? You guys get to witness. The two of you. OK? And maybe this guy talking to me. That should be good, right? Is that acceptable to all parties? Good. Great. Greatness. Let's do this thing."

Ray eyed the wriggling thing for a moment.

**You can feel free to close your eyes.**

_Really?_

**Just…don’t tell Illya.** Napoleon's voice lowered conspiratorially **. But I did.**

Ray shut his eyes tight. _Now what?_

**Now…you just open your mouth.**

_That is sick. That is so fucking sick. You REALLY suck._

 

* * * * *

 

Fraser watched with sick fascination - and no little dread - as the symbiote oozed into Ray’s mouth, Ray emitting a variety of high-pitched noises the whole time. A moment later Ray’s entire body went limp.

Fraser panicked. "Ray?"

Ray’s eyes opened again…

_And they started to glow._

Fraser stopped breathing.

"That took you all long enough." A tart rumble came out of Ray’s mouth. Although it was Ray’s vocal apparatus, the voice had a decidedly feminine timbre and a strangely metallic resonance. "I’m going to have to shut down all non-essential physical systems for a few hours while I repair his vital organs and clear the necrotic tissue out. We need time. Please go away."

Fraser forced the words out of still lips.

"Where…where is Ray?"

Ray’s head dipped slightly and he looked at Fraser. Suddenly his blue eyes were familiar again, and his voice, though thin, was Ray's nasal Chicago twang.

"M still here, Ben." Ray sounded exhausted but real. "I gotta go 'way for a minute, though, m’kay? Shir’s gotta fix all the broken shit in here." He paused for a second, breathing a bit easier already. His hand fluttered, fingers reaching. Fraser grabbed it and leaned in to give him a fierce kiss. When he released Ray's mouth, they were both shaking.

Ray licked his lips and pinned Fraser with a tired glare. "And when I come back…you and me? We’re going to have us a little talk about all that damned _talking_ , you hear me? Next time I’m near death, I expect you to be Action Mountie, you get that?"

"Understood, Ray." Fraser could feel tears tracking down his face, even as he smiled. For the first time since waking up in this place the tight knot under his ribs seemed to ease.

Ray closed his eyes. His lips curved up.

"Freak."


	4. Act 4 "you might be on your own for a while"

**Act 4**

_**"You might be on your own for a while"** _

 

**_Chicago, Illinois_ **

 

Ray Vecchio looked bleakly into his own reflection. There was simply never a day in his memory that he had wanted to end faster, and it was only nine o’clock in the morning. He was clean-shaven for the first time in over a month. He was dressed in his best black Armani suit, a little personal tribute. Benny would’ve gotten the joke.

His hands shook as he tied his black silk tie. He hadn’t yet had a drink, not throughout this whole nightmare, but if he was going to get through this day….

No. Benny would hate that. It wouldn’t be fitting, not today.

He checked his watch. The limo should be picking up Barbara Kowalski and his wife Stella any minute now. The Vecchios had agreed to come separately; Stell wanted to be close to Barbara. This was just going to wreck the poor woman, especially so soon after her husband’s passing.

Ray sat down at the edge of the bed.

This just wasn’t happening.

He’d tried to tell them. Tried to explain. Benny wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. He was _The Mountie_ , for Christ’s sake. He ate mountains like that for breakfast. Lock him in a safe, he came up with tuning forks. The guy was in some freaking cave eating caribou steaks right now and they would all see….

Ray made himself stop.

After the ceremony, simulcast in Canada and the US, he wandered around the cemetery. People were packing up and heading to the service. Frannie was hosting. Food cures all ills, right, Francesca? He found a tree to lean on and watched them go.

Soon everyone was gone. The place was deserted and he could finally go over and sit down and look at the headstone. He knew people would be waiting to see him; Stella would be waiting. He couldn’t go there just now. Could stand there and be told over and over how sorry everybody was, how there would never be another cop like Benny. And how brave Stanley was.

He curled his lip. Damn. He’d just started to be able to stand the guy.

His cell phone rang. He looked at the number. It was unlisted.

Fucking reporters.

Suddenly full of rage, he flipped open the phone.

"Do you have any idea how massively _wrong_ it is for you to be calling me, today of all days? Huh? Do you get how _wrong_ this is? I’m at the freaking _funeral_ of my best fucking _friend_ and you just have to get a _story_? Do you even know? No. No, obviously, you don’t. Well let me tell you something pal…."

Ray trailed off as he realized that there was a steady chant under his furious words.

"Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray. RAY!"

For a brief second there was absolute silence. Then Ray Vecchio closed his eyes.

"Benny?" He whispered softly, not entirely sure if he was dreaming.

"Ray, you have to listen to me."

"Oh my god! I _knew_ it!" Ray began to jump up and down, yelling into his cell phone. "I _knew_ you couldn’t be dead!"

"Ray. Ray, you have to listen, please…."

"Welsh is going to be so _pissed_ …."

"If I can’t get back…."

"And Frannie’s just gonna _flip_ …."

"Ray, if I can’t see you for a while…."

"And Stell...boy. I gotta tell you, Benny, Stanley’s in for it now. Yes, he is…."

"Ray…Ray…if we can’t get back…” Fraser took a deep breath, audibly shaken.

“Ray…you might be on your own for a while.”

Ray stopped. Now the words were filtering in, slowly, like arsenic into the water system. He knew those words, knew how they tasted spoken in that familiar choked tone. Ray Vecchio, of all the people in the world, knew the fucking import of those particular words.

“Benny…”

“if we… if we can’t get back …I just need you to know…."

Slowly, hating every word. "Know what, Benny?"

"I have loved working with you, Ray."

There was silence for a moment.

_“You might be on your own for a while”_

Once upon a time…he still remembered the bile in his throat, the sickness that had come up from deep in his gut as he said those fucking words to Benny. They had been the only good-bye he'd been allowed that day, forced by duty to abandon the best friend he'd ever known, with only a phone call…

"Ray. Do you understand?"

Ray couldn’t say anything for a moment.

"Ray?"

"Yeah," Ray inhaled deeply. "Yeah, Benny."

He held the breath for a moment. Then he blew it out. "I get it."

"Good."

Ray stood there like stone. If he moved, he would crack.

"Yo. Vecchio."

He couldn't _stand_ it. "Put Benny back on, _Stanley_."

"In a minute, Vecchio, in a minute. Just need to be clear. We ain’t got a lot of time and there’s stuff, you know?"

How could he ever have thought he could like this guy?

"Yeah, fine. Go on."

"First of all, only a few people can know, got it? You and Stell. Maggie McKenzie. My mom and Welsh. That’s all."

"That’s it?"

"For now. Take care of my mom and Stella, ‘K? Ben and me, we don’t know how deep and crazy this whole thing is going to get. It’s safer. You know this, you’ve done this, you know how it goes."

"I really hate you." Ray closed his eyes and nodded. "OK. OK. No problem. I’ll take care of it."

The phone was taken away abruptly, and Fraser came back on the line.

"Ray."

"I hate this, Benny."

"Understood, Ray. But it is necessary. For now, at least."

Ray rubbed his forehead. "All right. All right. S’your call, Benny. I'll do…whatever."

"Thank you. We have a few more things we need you to do for us. Is that all right?"

Ray felt something precious hovering on the edge of flight.

"Benny?" he blurted out, suddenly afraid.

"Yes, Ray?"

"I loved it, too."

Another silent moment. Ray really, _really_ couldn't _stand_ this.

"I know, Ray. I know."

 

* * * * *

 

 

The metal rings stacked weightlessly in the air, one on top of the other. Fraser, Ray and Illya appeared in a sparkle of light. The rings retracted with a low hum. They were standing in a small square room. It appeared to have all the hallmarks of a holding bay or a cargo hold in a small aircraft. There were two chairs at opposite sides that looked as if they’d been built into the walls. There was a square door on either end of the room, and Illya and Ray headed toward one of them, moving in tandem.

Fraser stood still, looking around uneasily. This was so far from his experience he literally didn’t know what he felt anymore. Ray and Illya stood in an adjacent space conversing in low tones. About what, Fraser couldn’t venture a guess. They seemed to have these _sotto voce_ exchanges fairly frequently.

And although Fraser had no knowledge of where they were now, or what they were about to do, one thing was excruciatingly obvious, even to the casual observer. Fraser knew, with terrifying certainty, that he was losing Ray.

Fraser could feel it, cold through the marrow of his bones. Ray had survived and was growing miraculously stronger and more physically fit by the day. But he was subtly different, changed in ways that Fraser felt he couldn’t completely grasp. Some were obvious, like his startlingly new ability to speak Russian. Some were more ephemeral.

Ray was more…self-confident, somehow. Even the confidence Ray had acquired through learning to live and work with Fraser in the Yukon hadn't affected him so deeply. Ray was…evolving…shedding his deepest neurosis and finally embracing his own unique strengths.

Fraser loved to see Ray blossom, but he could see no place in this new awakening for himself. Ray spent most of his time talking to Illya or communing with the strange new life form he carried inside his body. He was often preoccupied and vague. They hadn’t had physical relations since this whole nightmare began. Granted, Ray was still recovering from a tremendous physical and psychological trauma, but the lack of sexual intimacy merely added to Fraser’s growing feeling of despair.

What if Ray didn’t need him anymore? What if Ray didn’t _want_ him anymore?

Fraser remembered the day that Ray had revealed that he wanted to stay in the North, wanted to stay with Fraser. They hadn’t become lovers yet; that would develop later. But their adventure to find the Hand of Franklin was at its end. Although Franklin had eluded them, they _had_ ended up foiling an illegal ice-safari, discovering a cache of high-grade plutonium hidden by a disturbed scientist livid over the dissolution of the Soviet Union, and surviving the hardest test of their friendship to date -- three months snowbound together in Fraser’s cabin.

Fraser had been certain that Ray would go back to Chicago once he could. When he could stand the feeling of impending doom no more, he offered to take Ray to Inuvik to make arrangements to go back home.

Ray had looked at him, abject misery in his eyes and said, "What if I don’t want to go home?"

Fraser had been speechless with shock.

"Back there...uh…I’m just a guy, y’know? A guy with…um…fucked-up hair and…uh…a failed marriage." Ray’s eyes had been shadowed and he had hunched over, his arms wrapped around his stomach. "With you…I’m…uh…. I’m a cop. You know…uh…a real cop. Fraser, when I’m with you, I matter…. I matter with you."

Ray had looked up at him, as though expecting revulsion and rejection. "I, uh…. I like who I am… I mean, when I’m with you. I don’t…uh…. I don’t know how to go back. I don’t… I don’t…know…how…to _be_ that other guy anymore."

Fraser had felt the most overwhelming sense of love, emotion so huge he’d almost passed out. He’d grabbed the chance fate was handing him, the opportunity to have both the North and Ray, the two things he thought would never mesh. He had secretly been dreading the moment when Ray left, had spent nights watching his partner over the glow of firelight on snow and praying for their adventure to last forever.

And for a while there, he had begun to believe it actually would.

Now it looked like a lithe Russian with an alien serpent in his skull had found a different way for Ray to matter. A dangerous ex-spy was offering his partner a new vocation, one that could give Ray alternate avenues toward being an effective agent against crime. Illya Kuryakin was laying out before the other man an almost immortal life, one that didn’t seem to include perpetually following a danger-prone Mountie who was getting older by the second.

Fraser thought disgustedly about the fact that he’d even gotten winded the last time he’d carried a caribou home.

"Hey, Frase?" Ray’s nasal voice cut through Fraser’s brown study, pulling him back to the present. Ray’s blue eyes were worried. He stood in the doorway, arms folded and head cocked. Aside from being far too thin, Ray didn’t appear at all the same pain-racked man he’d been a mere few weeks before. "You doin’ OK?"

"Yes, Ray," Fraser said. "I feel perfectly healthy."

Ray’s eyes narrowed. He seemed to be about to say something, then stopped. He looked down, then looked back at Fraser.

"Illya’s firing up the Stargate." The ex-spy had explained the phenomenon of these huge Gates that led to distant worlds, but this would be the first time the partners would see one. "Come see it, Frase. It’s a trip."

Fraser obediently followed Ray to the next room. A small panel of strange buttons and lights was installed in the wall and a huge view screen revealed a craggy gray rock face just outside. An immense and ornately carved metal ring hung on the side of the mountain. It was comprised of two rings juxtaposed one within the other and there were strange symbols etched along both rings. Several of the icons along its circumference were lit with reddish lights and the inner ring was rotating. As Fraser watched, fascinated despite himself, Illya hit a final symbol on his control panel. The inner ring spun to a last symbol and Fraser could see the rock face shiver.

Fraser caught his breath as white fog boiled into the center of the ring and shot out toward them. The horizontal pillar lasted just a few seconds, and then it retreated back and became a shimmering sea of blue that danced through the air, contained within the breadth of the solid metal circle. It was inhumanly beautiful.

"You are gonna love this, Frase," Ray murmured. Illya was stretching a shunt from the side of the vessel they were currently on toward the rock-face. The shunt, when extended, would encompass the teeming and roiling surface of the Stargate, allowing for Gate travel without leaving the vessel. Fraser dimly heard a click as the mechanism locked into place, but his entire being was focused on Ray.

Ray was…exultant. His eyes were dancing, his whole body was reverberating, and his smile had grown to encompass his whole face. He looked like Christmas — better even, since Ray generally had a cynical and dour take on the holidays. Fraser began to feel progressively more and number, knowing he could never compete with the sheer excitement of this moment. There was one more metallic noise as the ship's inner door, which seemed to function much as an airlock for this particular maneuver, slid open for passenger access to the shunt.

"C’mon," Ray gestured with his head and took off in the direction of the shunt. Fraser followed, but after a few steps he slowed down. Standing in the shunt’s entrance, he watched Illya and Ray laugh at something together. He thought of his dream, the one he’d had the first night, exhausted and heart-sore. The light of the Stargate reflected blue on Ray’s face as he smiled at Illya the same way he’d smiled in Fraser’s dream.

Maybe it was time to admit what the dream was obviously telling him. Illya had saved Ray. He had saved Ray when Fraser could not. Maybe it was time to let go. Fraser saw Illya and Ray face the Stargate and step forward. He closed his eyes, unable to watch Ray disappear for good.

The blue light winked off behind his eyelids. Fraser took a deep breath, bracing against the growing pain of loneliness. He could do this. He could let Ray go for the greater good of humanity. For Ray’s greater good. Ray was happy, that was the important thing. He, Benton Fraser, was strong enough. He could do this. It was for the best.

"Umm. Frase?"

Fraser’s eyes flew open. Ray stood in front of him, a distressed look on his face. Illya was gone.

"Ray? What are you…?"

"Well, you didn’t seem to be…moving…at all…and I…uh...I got kinda…you OK?"

"I’m fine, Ray." Fraser tried to project reassurance, though the emotion was non-existent for him at the moment.

"You don’t look fine." Ray’s eyes narrowed and he cocked his head again. "You look freaked out."

"Well I can assure you Ray, I am perfectly fine." Fraser said shortly. "You have duties to attend to, I believe. I’ll be fine waiting here." There was no reaction. Fraser tried again. "I assure you, Ray. I simply had a momentary…. I simply needed some air. You go on. Illya is probably waiting for you."

"This ain’t buddies." Ray said flatly. "This ain’t…. There’s something wrong, Benton, and you aren’t letting me in on it. I’m your partner. I get to know these things."

"Are you?" Fraser blurted out, then mentally kicked himself. He hadn’t meant to do that.

Ray’s eyes widened. "Of course I am! What kind of a question is that?"

Fraser realized that Ray didn’t understand. He probably wasn’t even aware that he’d reached a new part of his life. It would probably take a few months for the old feelings to fade entirely. Ray was worried out of habit, but once that habit wore off….

"Stop it." Ray snapped. Fraser jumped and shot a startled look at Ray. Ray was emanating irritation and disgust. "Stop it right _now_ , Benton Fraser." He shook his finger at Fraser. "I know that look. That is your martyr look. That’s the 'close your eyes and think of Canada' look. You done with me? The snake turn you off? You want out? You let me know straight out. Don’t do this, this, this…" his arms flailed, "Stoic fucking Mountie thing."

With a cold rush, Fraser was suddenly livid. With a very, very few exceptions, he could not recall being quite so angry. His vision grayed at the edges as his blood pressure increased. There was a roaring in his ears and he could barely feel his extremities. In fact, he could barely feel _anything_.

"I am trying to bow out with some modicum of _grace_ , Ray," he spat out. "Some miniscule shred of _dignity_. I am simply acknowledging that maybe, just maybe, you have a new life and it doesn’t include a hanger-on. Possibly I have been grossly misled, but I was of the opinion that you were wholly committed to this venture, to the point of asking Ray Vecchio to _suppress_ the fact that we did not, in fact perish, but are healthy and preparing to embark on an _interstellar war_. And while I cannot entirely begrudge you that right…"

He stopped, mouth open, overcome by terror and grief. He had finally reached a point where he couldn't say the next sentence, because that next sentence would be the end. He looked away so he wouldn't have to say it.

Ray eyes were wide and intense. After a moment he finished the sentence for Fraser, his voice calm, "You can't or won’t follow me."

Fraser looked up. "I don’t know if I can or not, Ray. This whole thing is so far beyond my ken." He closed his eyes. "I’m lost, Ray. I am so _fucking_ lost."

It was the first time Fraser had ever used that word outside of the bedroom.

Ray asked a soft question. "Was that hard to say?"

Fraser rubbed his face. "Harder than I could have imagined." His mouth twisted and he looked at Ray, all the helplessness and anger and pain and loss pouring out of him like willpower in front of temptation.

Ray closed the distance between them and stood right in front of Fraser. He took Fraser’s face in his hands and kissed him softly. Fraser kept his eyes closed but leaned into the kiss, touching Ray’s tongue gently with his own, tasting failure.

Ray eased out of the kiss. "Look at me." Fraser opened his eyes. Dark blue met clear blue.

"If you really can’t do this — if you can’t even begin to do this — then we don’t. End of fucking discussion." Ray looked grave and troubled, but his grip was sure and he kissed Fraser once more, hard.

Fraser looked stunned, then troubled. He opened his mouth and Ray kissed him again, then continued.

"I would have to spend some time with Illya, help him find a suitable host for Shir. Or, I could simply come back after you…you know. " Ray looked uncomfortable. "I mean, with my lady in here, I’m gonna be around for a while. And this Underground Railroad thing they got is pretty well organized. Illya can keep working it for a while until I get back. Even if that takes twenty or so years."

Ray put his hand lightly over Fraser’s mouth, forestalling Fraser’s next words.

"But, and here’s the crazy thing, Ben…I have Shir's memories going back…fuck. Forever? And, honestly? There never was and there never will be anyone who could be more perfect than you at this stuff. Not me, not Solo, not even Illya Kuryakin himself. This gig has got _you_ stamped all over it. I know it seems completely freaky, but it’s so amazingly _you_." He grinned suddenly; just lit up, radiating joy. Fraser’s body reacted, desire stirring in his belly.

God almighty, he loved this man.

Ray continued, "I told Illya that he got the wrong partner for this caper. Shir’s memories of this war they’re in? I wish I could put you in my head to see all this crap. You’d be all over this, man. You’d Mountie across the galaxy and save entire worlds. You’d just be so… I don’t know, man. So un-fucking-believably good at this. I mean on an epic fucking scale."

"Ray…" Fraser said into Ray’s hand, and Ray cut him off once more.

"I know. I know. You like your life. You like the cabin and the woods and the dogs and the caribou and the Inuit and all that crap. And I like you." Ray stood back and paced a little, gesturing as he talked. "The thing is, Ben, you liked your life before you came to Chicago. You were happy. And then circumstances brought you to a life you’d never, ever, in a million years, have chosen. Except you had to. And it sucked, a lot of it. Lots of those days and most of those nights sucked, I get that. I totally do."

"But, " he whirled around and pointed his index finger and his pinky at Fraser, underlining his vehemence, "you met Vecchio. And you tracked down and got the guy who killed your father. And you met me. And it all led you back home in the end. Trailing a Chicago flatfoot like a stray fucking cat that wouldn’t leave, but still…" he folded his arms.

"You ended up going home with a best friend who loved you and a lover who would follow you to the ends of the earth." He finished quietly. "I call that some bizarre and perverse form of karma."

Fraser sat down, sliding against the wall as he pondered this interpretation of his recent past. It was true. He’d been lonelier in Chicago than he could have ever imagined. And he had endured pain and humiliation. But he wouldn’t ever trade those experiences for the hollow spaces he hadn’t even realized he had until he’d met the two Rays.

Ray let him turn that over for a moment, then knelt down next to him. His eyes were serious and he spoke in the slow way he had when something was deeply important.

"I will _always_ follow you, Benton Fraser. Always. You give me air when I’m drowning and carry me over mountains. You make me a better person than I think I am."

A wry smile. "Than I know I am."

"I’m the one who always says ‘Why us?’ You’re the one who believes. You believe that _we_ make a difference. And because we _can_ make a difference, we _have_ to. It’s our duty and our reason for any kind of honor in this crazy world."

"If you need to not do this, I will go. I _will_ follow you. But I’m asking, Ben. I’m asking you to trust me. I’m asking you to follow _me_ , for once. Just for a little while. Just until you see what this is. Just until you know what’s on the other side of that Stargate. That’s all. And if it’s too much and too big and too crazy, we’ll go home. We’ll fight the bad guys and raise our dogs and endanger our lives in the usual bizarre ways."

"But I think we could be here for a _reason_ , crazy as that sounds. I think we could do some good, for all those people out there, on different worlds. All those people who could use a little Mountie goodness in their lives."

Ray stood and took a step back. "Can you do this, Fraser? This once, right now, can you trust my instinct -- trust me? You know you can lead me to hell and back, but the question I’m asking is, can _you_ follow _me_?"

The two men looked at each other in silence. The question hung in the air between them, daring Fraser. He was free. He could turn around, right now, and walk out and Ray would come. Fraser stood slowly, gathering himself. Ray watched, face neutral. Their eyes met once more and Fraser took a deep breath. His fear, the constant cramp in his belly, was draining out. He realized he hadn't stopped believing that Ray was lost to him since the gunshots in the airplane. But of course, Ray, being Ray, simply refused to be lost.

And suddenly, Fraser wanted to see the other side of that blue shimmering wall, he wanted it so badly that he balled his hand into a fist with the sudden tension. He wanted to meet other races and learn new languages. He wanted to know and learn and show the entire gosh-darned universe what the word Mountie stood for.

Fraser looked directly at Ray, knowing his partner could see the excitement rising. Without speaking, they began to grin fiercely at each other. Fraser grabbed the front of Ray's shirt and pulled him over.

"Let's go, then." Fraser said and he kissed Ray again, just because he could. And when they were both happy and breathless and ready, Fraser said low in Ray's ear, "Show me another world, Ray."

Ray shivered and Ray's hands fisted in Fraser's henley and Fraser was filled with love because Ray was looking at him, really looking at him. And Ray looked joyous again.

Like Christmas.

Moments later, standing in front of the watery face of the Stargate, Ray gripped Fraser’s henley again and kissed Fraser once more, hard and fast, laughing at the gleam in Fraser’s eye.

Voice loaded with sexual innuendo, Ray murmured, "Hey, Mountie. Let’s go on a fucking _adventure_."

And Fraser grinned back at him as the Gate shook itself into being…

and shimmering blue light reflected on them for a moment....

and they stepped on a three count…

 

and then they were gone.


End file.
